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“Hackberry Holland.”
“Were you an officer of the law at one time?”
“I was. I’m not now. Mr. Longabaugh and his associate paid a call at my home. I’m sorry I was not there to greet them. Perhaps I could leave them a message.”
“These may be cattle buyers you’re referring to. Most of the cattlemen gather at the saloon. You’re welcome to come in, if you like. You seem to be a man of manners and education.”
“Not really. San Antonio is the only place in Texas that will allow me inside the city limits.”
She winked. “Let sleeping dogs lie, Mr. Holland.”
“Always,” he said.
THEY WERE SITTING at a felt-covered card table, next to a faro wheel, playing dominoes. Two years earlier he had seen their ink-drawn likenesses on a circular handed out at the Texas Ranger headquarters in Austin. The taller man was more than six feet and had been called “distinguished-looking” in the circular. Hackberry thought otherwise. The taller man, Harry Longabaugh, alias the Sundance Kid, had a head that seemed dented on one side, or a bit warped, as though the bone had gone soft. Harvey Logan, alias Kid Curry, was cut out of different stuff. On first glance he seemed to have the features of an ordinary workingman, until one realized that the large nose and luxurious mustache were a distraction from the defining attribute in his face: namely, the moral vacuity in his eyes.
Longabaugh was bareheaded, his hair neatly combed, his beard less than two or three days old; his friend wore a derby and a gold stick pin and a gold watch and chain and rings on his fingers, although his nails were rimmed with dirt. The business suits of both men had lost their creases; their shoes were scuffed and powdered with dust and manure. They had the appearance of men who had never decided who they were or in which century they wished to live. Longabaugh seemed to have a habit of breathing through his mouth and staring at a thought six inches in front of his face. The opacity in Logan’s eyes and the thickness of his mustache made it impossible to read his expression, provided he ever had one. Neither man appeared to be armed.
Hackberry set down his saddlebags on the bar and watched the two men in the mirror. Several prostitutes in dance-girl costumes were gazing down from the balcony rail and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.
“Send a shot and a beer to those fellows at the table, will you?” Hackberry said.
“They buy their own drinks,” the bartender replied.
“I owe them a round.”
“Not here, you don’t.”
Hackberry set his Stetson crown-down on the bar. “This is a tough place. Could I have a beer? With an egg in it?”
“Coming up.”
Only one, he thought. What was the harm? It wasn’t busthead or tequila. He watched the bartender draw the beer and rake off the foam with a wood spatula. “Now a bottle of Jack Daniel’s for my friends. I’ll carry it to the table. That’s all right, isn’t it?”
The bartender took a square uncorked bottle of whiskey from the back shelf and set it on the bar. He set three shot glasses next to it, his grimed fingers inserted inside each glass. “Anything else?”
Hackberry flipped his saddlebags over his shoulder and walked to the felt table by the faro wheel with the whiskey and the glasses. “You boys mind if I sit down?” he asked.
“Suit yourself,” Longabaugh said.
Hackberry set his saddlebags on the floor next to his chair. “Thank you. I’ve been riding trains for four days. I still hear the wheels clicking on the tracks.”
“We know you?” Logan said.
“Probably not. Two or three years back I saw y’all’s faces on a circular
regarding a bank robbery in New Mexico. You were cleared of the charges, though.”
Longabaugh put a peppermint in his mouth and sucked on it. He smiled with his eyes. “Can we help you with something?”
“You boys know a lady by the name of Maggie Bassett?”
“That’s twice you’ve called us boys,” Logan said.
“Figure of speech. Maggie says y’all came to our house.”
“You’re her husband?” Longabaugh said.
“Yes, sir. You were just in the neighborhood, knocking on doors and such?”
